2011: Let's Get Started Already!

"...As God is my witness, they’re not going to lick me! I’m going to live through this and when it’s all over, I WILL NEVER be..."

Okay. I'm not a resolution maker, and here's why: Fear of failure torments me.

There. I said it. I know deep down inside that, if I pulled a Scarlet and I swore before God that I would never be hungry again ... come April, when the hunger pangs hit, I would lose another little slice of my self esteem. Once again, I would have failed.

Every new year that I've resolved to lose a bunch of weight ... failure.
Promises to be more active, to cook at home instead of going out, to wash and clean out my car every other Saturday ... all of them ... failures. And failure, being something I don't do well or gracefully, is just too hard to deal with. So I stopped putting myself in the position to fail.

Eventually, I just stopped making resolutions. Instead, about ten years ago, I developed a New Year's Eve tradition where I sit quietly, alone, going over the past year in my head, praying about the things I wished I'd done differently, and journaling about my hopes for the future. Period. I don't resolve or promise or pledge or stand under a tree on a hilltop and lift my hands to the sky, vowing never to be hungry (poor, disorganized, irresponsible) again.

But this year I'm feeling a little differently. The last few months of 2010 have KICKED MY BUTT. No kidding. Everything (and I do mean everything) I've learned to relax and count on (with the exception of my God) has turned around and bitten me. The first part of the year was pretty amazing. But come September ... things changed.

So this year, as I hobble toward a clean slate and a new beginning, I find myself yearning to pull a Scarlet O'Hara and shake my fists at the sky.

With God as my witness:
I WILL receive my breakthrough.
I WILL remember, every single day without fail, that God's will is to bless me, not for me to go under. And God's will or word does NOT return void.
I WILL pray for others more than I pray for myself.
I WILL find new ways to make healthier choices.
I WILL seek a peaceful, easier, less tangled existence.
I WILL be a blessing to someone as often as I can.
I WILL find my delight in doing God's work, in whatever form that takes.

These are the resolutions that I can follow through. These are the vows I can appreciate and value and honor every day, without fear of failure.

Giving up my secret stash of Little Debbie 100-calorie red velvet cakes, with their sugar and preservatives and the like? I'm warning you: Don't even go there.

Merry Christmas!

My mom was the youngest of eight children, and their family didn't do the holiday accoutrements like decorating a tree and covering the house with lights. She once told me that her very first Christmas tree was bought for her by my father after they were married. Consequently, she was like Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor about multi-colored lights, gawdy decorations and tinsel-laden trees.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions has nothing to do with any of that. I've been thinking a lot about the Christmas Eve luminaria in our Cincinnati neighborhood. Every neighbor received their delivery of paper bags, sand and candles on Christmas Eve afternoon. My dad and I took care of lining our property with them together; it was our Christmas thing. And then, right at sunset, everyone in the neighborhood lit the candles, and our neighborhood of rolling hills and curved roads came to life like one of those Kincaid paintings. It was breathtaking.

I've often wondered why, since every thirteen seconds of our every Christmas experience was documented by my mother and her camera, there are no photographs of the luminaria. This week, I finally figured it out.

On Christmas Eve, my mother was inside singing along with Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole while she whipped up batches of clam dip and put together veggie trays, created appetizers and prepared side dishes while something roasted or baked or broiled. Food and decorations inside the home were my mom's thing. The luminaria ... that was my dad's thing. Well, my dad and me.

I can still see my dad, standing at the edge of the garage filling paper bags with the perfect ratio of sand, all wrapped up in his leather bomber jacket or the brown suede jacket that I loved so much. We would talk about everything during the couple of hours that it took us to prepare and place those bags, from school and boys to his love of football and his golf game. And when my mother's off-key singing made its way from the house out to the garage, we would burst into laughter.

"Oh, that's awful," I would say, and my often-stoic Officer Dad would snort and try to tell me all the other fine qualities his beloved wife had beyond song stylings.

I looked forward to Christmas Eve so much, simply because of those couple of hours I was sure to share with my dad. And now that the days of luminarias (and family) are far behind me, the Christmas season doesn't hold the same appeal.

But there is something different now; something I have now that I didn't have then. It is the birthday celebration of my Savior. There is an authentic love in my heart for the remembrance of a day that changed my life in such a personal way. And so I often send out cards to share the memory with the people I love; sometimes I decorate a tree or hang a couple of stockings. But always ... always! ... I cherish the memories. The one where I shivered outside of the garage with my beloved father, and the one where a star pointed the way to a manger and a baby who would change everything.

In your celebrations and family traditions and shopping for the perfect gifts, I hope you will take a moment or two to remember two things: Your favorite family memory, and the baby in the manger who changed you forever. Merry Christmas, my friends!

Childlike Faith...and other Childlike Things

This morning, I am remembering when I was a brand new Christian. EVERYTHING seemed like a miracle to me: an unexpected parking place right at the front of the store; a relevant song just at the time I needed to hear it; a scripture verse jumping out at me when the Bible just happened to fall open to that spot. God was everywhere, in everything. Each day was an adventure.

Over the years, there are more obstacles than adventures it seems. I'm not sure when I stopped driving up to the very front of the parking lot. Why waste time? There won't be a parking spot there; there hardly ever is.

I like to think of myself as a humorous person, but I certainly don't laugh as much as I used to. Life just isn't as funny as it used to be, if you know what I mean. But I think last night I discovered a cure ... at least for me.

You see, I don't have any children of my own. I really wanted a family when I was young, but that just wasn't the road carved out for me. There were miscarriages and disappointments, but no kids. As I've gotten older, I've learned to appreciate the quiet house and the ability to be spontaneous ... And then came Olivia and Nico.

One of my best friends, a "mother" of Beagles with whom I shared my passion for animal welfare and the world domination of dogs as members of the family ... well, she and her husband adopted a baby (human) girl. Less than a year later, they did it again and brought home a baby boy. Both kids were adorable, but really. Nothing could have been more effective at putting a crimp in the style of our friendship than BABIES. But as time went on and I watched my friends grow into parents, I realized they were following God's plan for their lives. It wasn't until recently that I also realized it was part of His plan for mine as well.

NOTHING frees you like spending some time with a small child, especially when they aren't at your disposal 24/7. Olivia adored me when she was a baby, but when she got to be around two she went through her shy phase, and wanted very little to do with me. Fortunately, Nico made up for it by being one. He saw the benefit of Aunt Sandie during the time when Olivia had forgotten.

Last night, I spent an entire evening with the two of them ... Trying to entice them into eating their dinners, making funny faces to distract them, coaching Olivia as she intently polished each paint sample strip in a block of about two hundred of them. Then when Nico went to bed, Olivia and I watched Frosty the Snowman and How the Grinch Stole Christmas (no less than half a dozen times each).

She sat on the couch beside me, sometimes leaned into me, often looked over at me for confirmation when something Frosty did drove her into a fit of hysterical laughter. On about the fourth rerun of The Grinch's antics in Whoville, at the same spot that had cracked her up each time before, I realized as Olivia rolled around laughing at the VERY SAME THING, that looking at the world through the eyes of a child must be AWESOME! I tried to remember a time when I saw things that way, when every experience, no matter how close together they came, was absolutely brand new.

This morning, I sat down for some prayer time, and my Bible fell open on my lap. I looked down and read, “I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15) Immediately afterward, I hid under the blankets and called my dog to come find me. It was once a game she never grew tired of, but admittedly a game we haven't played for a while since this house has become rather un-funny of late. After five or six rounds, Sophie happily tossed herself into my lap on her back for a belly rub. As I complied, I told her she really had Olivia and Nico to thank for it.

And so do I.

Christmas Approacheth

My mom was the youngest of eight children, and their family didn't do the holiday accoutrements like decorating a tree and covering the house with lights. She once told me that her very first Christmas tree was bought for her by my father after they were married. Consequently, she was like Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor about multi-colored lights, gawdy decorations and tinsel-laden trees.

One of my favorite Christmas traditions has nothing to do with any of that. I've been thinking a lot about the Christmas Eve luminaria in our Cincinnati neighborhood. Every neighbor received their delivery of paper bags, sand and candles on Christmas Eve afternoon. My dad and I took care of lining our property with them together; it was our Christmas thing. And then, right at sunset, everyone in the neighborhood lit the candles, and our neighborhood of rolling hills and curved roads came to life like one of those Kincaid paintings. It was breathtaking.

I've often wondered why, since every thirteen seconds of our every Christmas experience was documented by my mother and her camera, there are no photographs of the luminaria. This week, I finally figured it out.

On Christmas Eve, my mother was inside singing along with Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole while she whipped up batches of clam dip and put together veggie trays, created appetizers and prepared side dishes while something roasted or baked or broiled. Food and decorations inside the home were my mom's thing. The luminaria ... that was my dad's thing. Well, my dad and me.

I can still see my dad, standing at the edge of the garage filling paper bags with the perfect ratio of sand, all wrapped up in his leather bomber jacket or the brown suede jacket that I loved so much. We would talk about everything during the couple of hours that it took us to prepare and place those bags, from school and boys to his love of football and his golf game. And when my mother's off-key singing made its way from the house out to the garage, we would burst into laughter.

"Oh, that's awful," I would say, and my often-stoic Officer Dad would snort and try to tell me all the other fine qualities his beloved wife had beyond song stylings.

I looked forward to Christmas Eve so much, simply because of those couple of hours I was sure to share with my dad. And now that the days of luminarias (and family) are far behind me, the Christmas season doesn't hold the same appeal.

But there is something different now; something I have now that I didn't have then. It is the birthday celebration of my Savior. There is an authentic love in my heart for the remembrance of a day that changed my life in such a personal way. And so I often send out cards to share the memory with the people I love; sometimes I decorate a tree or hang a couple of stockings. But always ... always! ... I cherish the memories. The one where I shivered outside of the garage with my beloved father, and the one where a star pointed the way to a manger and a baby who would change everything.

In your celebrations and family traditions and shopping for the perfect gifts, I hope you will take a moment or two to remember two things: Your favorite family memory, and the baby in the manger who changed you forever. Merry Christmas, my friends!

Why, Lady Gaga?! WHY?

Why is it that the songs we don't particularly like are the ones that most often get stuck in our heads?

Last night, I woke up at around 3 a.m. and immediately noticed the beat of one of those songs bouncing around between my ears. Had I been dreaming and the song was part of it? Or was it waiting there for me, ready to pounce the moment I opened my eyes? Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad if it was an old Beatles song, or Van Morrison, maybe a little Motown. But ... why Lady Gaga? I mean, I'm not a fan. I'll admit it: If she comes on the radio, I switch the station. I don't think I even know all the words to a single one of her songs! Which is why it was a little unsettling to find myself in the pitch-dark bathroom, first humming, and then singing straight out:

Promise I'll be kind
but I won't stop
until that boy is mine
Baby, you'll be famous
Chase you down until you love me
Papa-paparazzi

What?

I'm your biggest fan
I'll follow you until you love me
Papa-paparazzi

Really?

When I finally managed to fall asleep an hour or two later, you might think my brain would change the station, right? But no! The moment I opened my eyes this morning, there it was again! But WHY? Why Lady Gaga, of all people?! So I ran to Google.

"Why do songs get stuck in your head?"

One of the 1,620,000 results gave a bunch of tips on how to evict an unwanted musical visitor. Things like doing something else, like working out. Yeah, next? Play some other music so you can get another song in your head instead. Uh, why does my brain stereo have to be on 24/7? Listen to the song all the way through as a form of closure. Oh, really, I don't think I could.


Well, I just tried doing other things and forcing it out of my head. I watched some television, answered some emails, threw in a load of laundry. And wham! Victory! You-know-who was gone. I tried not to think about it too hard because I didn't want to remind my brain, but I was really really happy. I went the whole day without thinking of Lady Gaga even once, or wondering how on earth my brain knew the words to that particular song.

A little while ago, I turned on Sing-Off. Each group was assigned a medley of songs from one particular artist like Usher or The Beatles.

You see it coming, don't you?

That's right. One of the Sing-Off groups opened their medley of Lady Gaga songs with PAPARAZZI. I'm pretty sure I'll need help sleeping tonight. Tylenol PM anyone?

Dark Places

I cried when I heard the news that Mark Madoff, son of crook Bernie Madoff, took his own life. Despite the fact that I've read and heard a lot of chatter about him being a "coward" and a "criminal" and all sorts of other labels that may or may not bear even trace amounts of truth, all I can really think about is how dark the world must have seemed for him to sink into its depths and surrender by hanging himself with his Labradoodle's leash.

I can admit that I know the dark places where those thoughts originate. I've had a couple of seasons in my life where I didn't know if I had what it took to struggle through. I've seen the world close in around me in what seemed like the blink of an eye ... and yes, I swam around in thoughts of escape.

Bernie Madoff's crimes were monstrous! But Mark and his brother, Andrew, were the ones who turned their father in to the authorities when they discovered the truth. That couldn't have been easy. But then to be accused of participating, to be investigated, hounded, even bullied because he had the misfortune to work for, admire and trust his father ... I can see where that could take a person down. I don't pretend to know the details about Mark Madoff's guilt or innocence, involvement or cluelessness, but what I do know is this: Any time someone reaches the literal point of no return in their hopelessness, our hearts should ache for them.

Many years ago, I read an article about a poverty-stricken man who continued to spend every cent he made by gambling. Poker games, horse races, lottery tickets. He was so desperate to escape his situation in life that he would do just about anything to score big. After losing job after job, when he finally couldn't deal with the pressures of his debts, had no medical insurance to address growing health issues, he spent his last bit of cash on a gun and he shot himself to death. The following Saturday, one of his quick-pick lottery tickets hit it big and the extended family that labeled him "worthless" and "trash" and "loser" was the very same that benefited from his death with several million dollars in winnings.

That story sticks with me. Every time things start to seem a little dire, I think about that man and his desperation. Especially for those of us who are called by God, who know His promises and His character, we just never know what can happen tomorrow to turn the tide. Faith in God almost always manifests in sudden, unexpected resolutions and solutions. And part of the responsibility of that faith, of learning to believe without seeing, is to hang in there and wait for God to act. Like that cat in the poster from back in the 70s, dangling by its claws above the saying, "Hang in there, baby."

I wish someone had given that poster to Mark Madoff. Or better yet, had spoken to him about the redemptive power of Jesus Christ; the magnificent way He can turn things around on a dime through sudden vindication and restoration; described to him how the disciples must have felt when, three days into their grief over the death of their dreams ... Resurrection came. And nothing was ever the same after that.

Today, I pray for Mark Madoff's wife and children. For his brother, for his mom. And although I don't particularly want to ... I pray for his monster of a father, and I hope that maybe this devastating end to his son's life will act as a catalyst for change within his own heart.

A Quiet Life

A while back, a woman I love and respect made the difficult decision to retire. Despite the fact that so much of the essence of who Barbara Scott is has been defined by her work, and despite her best efforts to follow her flesh and carve out other roads, she finally got the message. Here's what she wrote in her final blog post:

I don't know what God has for me on the other side of this season, but the Lord has made it abundantly clear this is the right choice. A dear friend and author, Cynthia Ruchti, shared a Scripture with me that will carry me through.

"But we encourage you . . . to seek to lead a quiet life,
to mind your own business, and to work with your own hands
...so that you may walk properly in the presence of outsiders
and not be dependent on anyone." --I Thess 4:10b-11, Holman Bible

I've never given myself permission to lead a quiet life; hard work is all I've known since I was 19. I'm now 62.

Her post really impacted me. Cynthia is also a dear friend of mine, and I recall writing her that I hoped she wouldn't mind if I snagged that scripture for myself as well. The truth is that there's been a distant whisper that I've been hearing for a while now, one that seeks to call me toward a quiet life of my own. I don't know if this has been the case for Barbara -- I haven't had the chance to ask her -- but it seems to me that, the harder a person strives to simplify things, the further out of reach the peace seems to move.

I've been praying about it a lot lately. I have no intention of giving up the call God has put on my life (and I'm far too young to retire, right? ... RIGHT!?), but I can't help hoping He has a little peace and grace and quiet contentment in His plans for my future. Just this afternoon, I asked Him about it again. Being the strong, silent type, I so often don't hear His reply. But many times, like today, I will often feel a sense of comfort that I lazily accept.

Tonight, I took some time to roam around for a while, catching up with all of the blogs I haven't been reading lately with all of my distractions. I came across Chip MacGregor's blog. Chip is one of the great agents in Christian publishing. I was struck with emotion when I read that he'd submitted his final post a month ago! He's not retiring, but he's giving up his blog. It's the end of an era, in a way.

I was struck with further emotion when I read:

I was reading my bible the other day, and was struck by Saint Paul's
words to his protege, Timothy: "Make it your ambition to lead a quiet
life." You know, I've led a loud, noisy life. It's been great in many
ways, and I've loved writing, but I'm going to step away and seek quietness.
I'm not retiring, or even disappearing -- I'll still be working in the
industry I love. But I don't think I want people to read my blog or
hear me speak at a conference and tell me how great I am. Instead,
I'd like to actually help people who stand in front of me, and maybe
not try to convince everyone I'm a hero.

It seems like the Holy Spirit is circulating that word to so many of God's children these days. Make it our ambition to lead a quiet life. Like Chip, I've led a fairly noisy one. Twenty years in Hollywood, ten years as an author, always working at least two jobs, always on the move. But recently, I've actually grown a little tired, a bit overwhelmed, rather reflective. And I find myself yearning for the strangest things ... like a smaller, more meaningful existence. Some peace, a little good health.

As I say a prayer tonight for my friend and sister, Barbara Scott, and for Chip MacGregor, an acquaintance who makes a difference in so many writers' lives, I ask the Lord to bless their intentions and anoint them with the answer to their pursuits. I pray that they find their quiet lives where truth and mercy meet.

And I can't help but wonder what the Lord has in mind for the rest of us, my friends! I'm so anxious to find out. And so so hopeful.